


Side by Side

by Izzy_Grinch



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst and Humor, Comforting Varric, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Bromance, Epic Friendship, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Cuddling, Post-All That Remains, other siblings are dead too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-06 06:29:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12205722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzy_Grinch/pseuds/Izzy_Grinch
Summary: When there’s an abyss spreading in front of Hawke, who will take that step with him?





	Side by Side

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Бок о бок](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10195919) by [Izzy_Grinch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzy_Grinch/pseuds/Izzy_Grinch). 



The estate living hasn’t worked out for Hawke. Whether it’s the ceilings to blame for being too high, or the lintels being too low, he always has a bunch of different and not quite clear reasons to leave the house. That’s why, returning back to The Hanged Man, Varric usually finds the boots lying right at the threshold, and Garrett intently stodging the local cookery at the table, while leafing through Varric’s writings.

“I’m not making fair copies of my drafts, Hawke, for you to put your greasy hands on them.”

“I wiped ‘em.”

“Yes, on your pants, a second before I came in; I saw you.”

He says that he gets used to the good things pretty quickly, but he just can’t accept his nobility, gained with sweat and blood. Says, it’s not possible anymore to get along with his mother’s aggravated vigil and stand her talking daily of how nice the youngest children were and how hopeless he’s become. Says, the door is stuck sometimes with piles of letters and crumpled notes, which people shove in, asking him tearfully for something. He says it jokingly, of course, as he always does, but his words so obviously have a grain of bitter truth in them.

“Sent for a cobbler ‘bout three hours ago and feel like our hornyhood will sail back to Seheron much sooner than−”

“Oh, he’s down there. Decided on the halfway to try the cupbearer’s duty, and now unlikely able to tell the difference between the soles and Corff’s roasted beef. Which definitely wouldn’t happen, Hawke, were you receiving him in you lair.”

It’s not too much trouble to have Hawke around. It’s messy, indeed, but surprisingly less disturbing than the other days, when they’re hanging around the Wounded Coast together or looking for troubles alone, busy with their own stuff. He always puts all the drafts, which he shows keen interest in, back on their place; not in their original condition though, and even stained with blood, for sometimes he dozes away and his fresh wounds reopen in the sleep. He regularly pays his half of the rent for the apartments, occasionally gambles in the taproom to train his mind and entertain the soul, fleecing the resentful thieves, who are very glad to come later for revenge, and very sad to crawl away afterwards.

Varric remembers someone tumbling into the other night, cursing filthy and swearing to end with “that lad of a brainy (how sweet) dwarf”, waving their weaponry in the darkness of the room. Then there were a swish, a heavy thud and a cling of a shoulder-belt; Hawke muttered: “I’ll clean ‘em up in the morning,” and there came his snore. He snores like a bear with a cold, but, fortunately, Varric snores too, however a little bit more melodically.

“Hawke, you do realize it’s irresponsibly to bring strangers to the home, without noticing those you’re living with?”

“Varric, he’s a dog.”

“And this is my plate he eats from.”

“He was dying of hunger and loneliness! You helped me when I−”

“You’re not a dog, Hawke, and you weren’t dying, as I recall, you were just gaping about after being pickpocketed.”

But now it’s strangely quiet. There are no dirty boots, no unsheathed daggers scattered over every chair, no crushed chestplate leaning to the statue of Andraste. Hawke has snuggled in the shadows on the very edge of the bed, staring at the wall glassily. He has a funeral doublet on and a burden of the last years, multiplied by three; and Varric realizes how young this man actually is, twenty and a bit − it’s almost nothing. Varric sighs, takes a branchy candelabrum and a bundle of the unread letters and gets on his part of the bed. He’s waiting, for that is the best offer he can make at the hour like this.

“We weren’t rubbing along quite well, you know. _You luck of your sister’s consciousness, Garrett. You set a poor example for your brother, Garrett. You remind me of your father so much, Garrett.”_

Hawke turns over with an effort, and Varric seems to understand it just now − the actual purpose of his beard. The eldest child doesn’t mean he’s an adult.

“But she’s my mother, and I hadn’t another one, and I didn’t want another. And now…”

The hair under Varric’s palm is harsh and dusty, like everything in the Lowtown, which has fossilized in the sand, gritting on the teeth. Hawke can’t return home; he doesn’t believe in ghosts, but there’re too many of them in his estate now, and he’s feeling empty, and scared, and the guilty weighs down his heart.

“Garrett, my friend, you’ve lost− I can’t even imagine− unbelievably much,” his cheek is bristly and wet. “But no matter what, you’re not alone, Hawke, trust me.”

Hawke presses his forehead against Varric’s side and closes his eyes. Soon he will rush into the tavern with his eyes shining bright, and ask if Varric has ever happened to tame the dragons, for people talk there’s one in the quarry, enjoying his second breakfast of pitmen. Or he will suggest to chip in, since the Viscount is such a skinflint, for a ship so Arishok could wave them farewell. But it’ll happen sometime later; and now Varric lets the crackling of the candles and scratching of the quill brush away Hawke’s dark and mournful thoughts.

“I trust you.”


End file.
